Thy native home? Must the feet of slaves Pollute this glorious scene! It can not be. Even as the smile of Heaven can pierce the depths These beetling cliffs. Some hearts yet beat for thee, Oh! is not this a presage of the dawn Of freedom o'er the world? Hear me, then, bright And beaming Heaven! while kneeling thus I swear To live for Freedom, or with her—to die! LESSON CXVI. DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP! The unknown author of the following poem called it a Ballad. It is a glowing description of a sort of courage to which death is less for midable than submission. It it to be hoped that, before, long men will learn the difference between dying to injure and dying to benefit each other; the difference between that physical courage which fears noth ing, and that moral courage which begins and ends in the fear of God. The elements of true Patriotism are as yet but imperfectly understood. What! have we not another shot To thunder o'er the tide ? Low droops our shot-torn pennon down These ragged sails shall never more, Seem wings before the blast! "And lo! she comes-that victor ship, She comes to sound above our heads "We've swept the wave a score of years, And shall we now bow down in shame, "Our hearts are with our gallant bark- Her planks have drank our comrades' blood, Our triumph they have known, And they shall be our funeral pyre Her fate shall be our own. "And we will take a last embrace, Our war cry raise once more, And rend the air in mockery Of yon wild cannon's roar. "Tis done our ship is sinking fast, Her masts-how low they lean! Their yards have kissed the leaping deepNow, Fire the magazine!" One moment, and above the deck LESSON CXVII. CIRCASSIAN WAR SONG. The extraordinary resistance of the tribes on the Black Sea to the Russian arms, has long since attracted the attention of every man who wishes well to Freedom. Five successive campaigns have scarce ad vanced the dominion of the Czar beyond the sea-coast. The Circas sians have made furious attacks on several Russian fortresses; and colossal as is the strength of Russia, and grasping as is her ambition, she has hitherto been baffled by these valiant Circassians. The piece is taken from BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. A shout from the mountains! The hunters are near, But their horn is not wound For the chase of the deer; Have clasped on their mail, We have marched through the midnight At evening we saw The grim walls of Aboun; Like a lion it basked On the brow of the hill; At midnight it roared, But at morning was still. We tamed it with fire, And we choked it with blood; Now, the gore-blackened ground Alone shows where it stood. Hurrah for the morn When proud Ghelendik fell! What cared the Circassian For shot or for shell! Though her ramparts were blazing With rocket and gun, The hearts of the sons Of the mountain were one; Three thousand white skeletons Pale slaves of the Czar, reap; Up the cannon crowned ridge, Our feet are our wings, And our bodies our bridge. We laugh at your cannon, That shall never be sold. We saw the Black Eagle, In Muscovite gore. We have cut off its talons, And blunted its beak; Let it frighten the Persian, Or feed on the Greek, Let it pounce on the Turk, LESSON CXVIII. THE REVELLERS. The following Temperance Lyric first appeared in the OHIO BACKWOODSMAN. The Bacchanal is not the first who in "drinking to life" has encountered death. Loud sounds of mirth and joyousness, And the glass was freely passed around, And many a heart felt light with glee A voice arose in that place of mirth, I have no fear-I have no fear- And he wars but with his breath. "Cheer, comrades, cheer! We drink to Life, And presently the latch flew up, And the door flew open wide; And a stranger strode within the hall, |